


"Working Late Again?"

by Moonfireflight



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, Amaurotine times, Elidibus shows up for about 5 seconds, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, POV Second Person, identity of reader is ambiguous, it's always Lahabrea appreciation hours, just for fun, there's nothing kinky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonfireflight/pseuds/Moonfireflight
Summary: Lahabrea has a terrible habit of working well beyond exhaustion all too often. As his lover, you take it as your duty to ensure he gets some good rest from time to time.(I started this whole thing because I wanted to write the first part of what happens here but the story changed its mind on me, as they tend to. This took far too long to write thanks to the Unavoidable Stress Miasma of The Plague Times combined with way too many things going on, or ceasing to go on, in my life.)
Relationships: Lahabrea (Final Fantasy XIV)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	"Working Late Again?"

“Working late again?” 

“I suppose,” replies Lahabrea offhandedly, glancing up from his parchment for the first time in hours. “It doesn’t matter so long as my work is completed. I can’t leave this to someone else.” He gazes out the window for a quiet, wistful moment. “... Too important,” he says, the words almost lost behind the scrape of quill against parchment as he dives back into the sea of paperwork, lost under waves of ink and scroll. 

You pad over to the comfortable raised seating area you’d created at the intersecting corner of two vast windows, and nestle into the collection of pillows there. Legs tucked up under you, you watch the tiny people below going about their business. From this height, the red masks of two of Lahabrea’s peers are barely visible, though they appear purple as seen through the teal windows that fill this wing of the Academy. The pair stand shoulder to shoulder, speaking so close their voices must be little more than a whisper. Seeing them so brings a smile to your face. 

A hushed curse draws your attention back to the member of the Convocation that has captured your heart. He huffs out a breath, shooing away the strands of blonde hair that had fallen in front of his face. Another moment of silent observation confirms your suspicions. His head slowly tilts forward then jerks back up, then again. Lahabrea resumes writing, but he sways, quill straying, skipping off his parchment and scraping against his desk. He swears and dips the quill in his inkwell once more.  _ That does it. Difficult man. Diligent to a fault... _

You extract yourself from your nest and stop just in front of his desk. “Dearheart, you can’t work like this.” 

“I can, and I  _ must _ ,” he growls, quill darting across the page with renewed fervor. 

_ Ah, he’s being particularly stubborn tonight. This calls for more drastic measures. _ He pays you no mind as you circle around him, the intensity of his focus clear from the fine lines on his brow. Heat rises to your cheeks, caused in equal parts by adoration and anger at how he pushes himself past the breaking point so often. But thoughts of how you might break his concentration cause that warmth to pour down into your chest. 

Even beneath the thick fabric of his robes, you can feel his muscles tense as your fingers prod for the spots you know tend to knot up when he’s hunched over his desk like this. You suppress a laugh at his unintelligible grumble. On many nights he’s practically begged for the magic you can do with your fingers, so you know he appreciates it despite his sour response. 

Still, he keeps working, filling the room with the scratch of pen on parchment. The press of your thumb into a particularly tight spot near his shoulder blade draws a moan of appreciation from deep in his throat. You lean in closer, not wanting to miss a single utterance. Though his voice reaches many on this star, it is those secret hushed sounds of his that you treasure most. 

Spurred on by his reaction and the subtle lean into your touch, you add a little more pressure, rubbing small circles along the muscle until it relinquishes its hold on him. Lahabrea sighs. His quill slows but does not yet stop. You can just feel the warmth of his body through his clothing and can’t help wanting more. The loose collar of his casual grey robes calls to you. Besides… you haven’t managed to stop him entirely yet, so a little indulgence can surely be forgiven in your noble cause. 

Slowly so as not to give away your plans too early, you glide one hand over his shoulder, massaging as you go, though with less attention than before. When he doesn’t complain or push you away, you wait another breath and slip your fingers along his collarbones and under his robes. He tenses, quill briefly stilling. “Do you have any idea how distracting that is?” 

You can’t help grinning at the nigh-imperceptible whine at the tail end of his breath, caused by your nails trailing down his chest. “I have some idea, yes,” you whisper into his ear. Lahabrea’s hand trembles, sending flecks of ink into the air to dot his page like an inverse night sky.

“I need to finish...,” Whatever he had intended to say was lost to a sudden ragged exhalation as you circle in on one of his nipples, teasing the flesh to a pert nub and pinching it just enough to capture his full attention. 

It’s impossible not to take advantage of his last words. “You do need to  _ finish  _ tonight, but it’s not your paperwork I’m here to help with.” Victorious delight surged within you as, at last, he set his quill down with deliberate care, albeit likely a bit harder than intended judging by how it wobbled on the desk. 

“... Utterly devious. You’re an absolute menace.”

“Oh?” 

Beneath his furrowed brows, the Speaker’s eyes wander the room deliberately, evading eye contact. “You know very well, I have no time for such dalliance.” 

You’ve played this game with him before, and you  _ know _ that look or the avoidance of one. He’s already conceded and is debating the logistics of your impending tryst. Instead of leaving it up to him, you decide to enact a plan that’s been stewing in your mind for far too long. "Then you can keep working… if you are able to." 

“What?” he manages before you flash him a grin and dive under his desk, stifling a giggle at the glimpse you’d gotten of his shocked expression. “No, you can’t…” 

With the hem of his robes already in your hands, you quirk back, “Shh. You’re working, remember?” Shuffling your way under what suddenly seems like an unreasonable amount of cloth doesn't work nearly as well as it did in your fantasies, but you manage it. No sooner than you had adjusted to the darkness and rather stifling heat, you hear a knock on the door and  _ freeze _ . 

Lahabrea mutters something in irritation and moves his legs further apart, giving you a little more room to hide. You furiously try to remember what the lighting is like in his office. Hours and hours spent there but you never bothered to consider the visibility of the underside of his desk because it never mattered! A dull thud from above you must be Lahabrea conveying the unhelpful and obvious request for you to do exactly what you are already doing - willing yourself to be still, silent, and unnoticeable despite your face being three ilms from his groin.

“Come in,” he snaps, shifting again to accommodate you. Unfortunately, your night vision has resolved itself and his movements only serve to draw even more of your attention to his tight black smalls and your goal that lies just beyond them.  _ Don’t move. Don’t think about how he’ll squirm when you cover him with your mouth, your hot breath soaking through the fabric, the taste of his musk _ … The heavy wooden doors swing open,  _ oh no, they sound so close, why can’t you remember how this damned room is laid out?! _ followed by measured footsteps. 

The visitor waits approximately an eternity before speaking, leaving you with the sound of your breath and the increasing mugginess of your hideout. At least the growing ache in your knees serves to distract you from other thoughts. Mostly. 

“I thought I might find you here at this time of night.” Your blood freezes. Lahabrea’s surprise guest can only be Elidibus - the one member of the Convocation whose presence intimidates you - and you have no way to tell if he’s talking to you or the man whose robes you’re hiding in. 

Lahabrea lets out an unsteady sigh. “Well, you’ve found me. Do you have a particular reason for bothering me or may I get back to work?” 

Elidibus replies with a quiet hum, and another horrible, sweltering pause before continuing. “I have no news to report, no. I was simply worried that my irritable friend was extending himself beyond reason.”

“I can manage myself!” Perhaps you are giddy from lack of air, but on hearing that lie on Lahabrea’s lips, you flick a finger against his leg, making him jump and let out an undignified grunt. 

  
“Are you well?” 

“Banged my shin on the desk,” comes the grumbled reply.

“Another sign of your exhaustion,” chides Elidibus. “I seem to recall you complaining about that only being a problem when you are tired. For your sake, and that of our star, please find your way to bed soon. Your work will still be there tomorrow and will be better attended to when you are rested.”

With a sigh, the man above you relents. “Once I finish the last of this scroll, I shall.” 

"Good. Nothing is worth running yourself ragged for like this. Would assigning you another assistant be of value? I know at least one I can personally vouch for."

"No." His staunch refusal of help earns him another, much lighter flick. "Hmph. Rather, I'll consider it. Tomorrow."

Another eon passes, the air growing heavier, drenched. You're certain by now Elidibus is aware of your presence and is toying with the two of you. Your only salvation is that the Emissary of the Convocation is a shrewd and proper man. You can’t picture him calling out a peer for the debauchery taking place - or that was going to take place the moment he left. "It pleases me to hear you say that. On that note… I will wish you a pleasant night and take my leave.” The embarrassment behind his words is palpable. In any other situation, that hesitation could have been endearing, even. However, your face was on fire and if you didn’t make eye contact with the man for the next 300 years, that would be ideal. 

Lahabrea grunts in reply, and from the muted rasping above you, he’s returned to writing. It is the only sound in the room for several seconds until slow footsteps retreat and the door closes. Another year seems to pass in agonizing silence as your muscles and willpower atrophy from sheer mortification. 

"Get out from under my desk." His voice is hollow from exhaustion but it still sends you into a flurry of motion. 

You stand before his shrine to stress, half-melted from the heat, shaking out your tangled robes and willing your cheeks to stop burning. 

"You know that if I have an assistant you cannot linger in here through the night anymore.” That stops you from fiddling with your clothing. Those words are a plea. A confession. No chiding you for your foolishness. No lecture on how his tenure is the only thing preventing him from having been subjected to one himself just now. The lightness in your chest begs you to change your mind on the matter, to spend a thousand more quiet evenings like this at his side. But, the star needs him even more than you do, and therefore, he needs to make a change that will benefit his health. 

While making a feeble attempt to comb your fingers through tangled hair, you reply, "And I will miss those times. Yet were you to give yourself more chances to rest, I will have you at your best. Awake, and perhaps less…" 

"If you say 'irritable' I will…,"

With a hand on his desk now, you lean in close, steeling yourself to share another one of your fantasies with him. "Bend me over this desk and render me unable to speak, but for uttering your name and begging you not to stop?"

It’s impossible not to crack a smile as Lahabrea devolves into a mess of sputtered attempts at speaking. “I… Look, you…!” 

He shakes his head, then takes a long deep breath while pinching the bridge of his nose. When his eyes meet yours, the wicked smirk he wears hits you like a physical wave of force. “That would be a good start, yes.” 

With the practiced poise he’s cultivated over centuries as the voice of the Convocation of Fourteen, he stands up and begins to tidy his desk as though he hadn’t just rendered you a boneless creature of pure desire. Paperwork is guided into meticulous stacks and relegated to the far reaches of that dark wooden plateau. A stray quill finds its home in a black marble cup with a few others, their feathered and swirled glass shafts making way for their new companion. You sway along with them, shifting your balance from one foot to the other as your inner fires wax and wane. 

A clean workspace has been prepared in the center of his organized chaos. He dusts off his hands and stands up, pressing a palm to the small of his back as he straightens his spine. If you didn’t know him so well, weren’t so attuned to his various little tells, you might have missed the wave of weariness that rolls through his body - a yawn narrowly suppressed. Yet he shakes off his exhaustion and tosses his braid over his shoulder before acknowledging your presence once more. 

The beckoning crook of his finger is superfluous - the smoulder in his eyes draws you to him as though he’s summoned you, negating the space between you in an instant. As if you could resist him, as if you would. Your fingers wind through the back of his robes, seeking his shape beneath them and drawing him down for a kiss. In mere moments, it becomes a hungry tangle tinged with the bite of the bitter tea he favors. He once offered you a sip of the noxious concoction. Back then, it tasted of metal and loam from the darkest corners of Halmarult’s lair, yet on Lahabrea’s tongue, it is a heady blend of earth and smoke. 

He only pauses when you are both burning for air, taking advantage of the intermission to lift you up and onto his desk. “If you insist on distracting me from official business, then I’ve no choice but to make you my magnum opus for tonight.” 

Lahabrea kneels down low to work his hands under your robe. He slides his hands up your legs as he stands to kiss you, resting his palms on your thighs for the moment. With your legs so exposed, you are glad that he keeps his room comfortably warm. His hands are still for far too long, and you whimper against his lips and press a heel against his hip to beg him to continue. His shoulders shake with silent laughter, the smug bastard, but he gives in to your prompting. 

Clearly wanting to draw things out, he takes his time, meandering towards your heated apex. When he finally presses a finger to your core, dragging it down the drenched fabric of your smalls, the tension you’d carried all night releases. You fall back, bracing yourself with your palms against his desk. “So tightly wound,” he rumbles. “I will endeavor to be gentle.”

“Don’t… don’t be  _ too _ gentle, please.” 

And you fear he might not listen to your plea - his touch is so light, explorative. It’s not nearly enough pressure to give you what you need. Yet, the look of rapturous concentration on his face, his lips parted ever so slightly, that is enough to send a throb of delight through your loins. “I do not mean to torment you,” he whispers. If his thought was incomplete, you would never know. His gaze goes soft as if he’s losing focus, but his fingers hone in on your most sensitive spot. Short, quick movements rasp over the cloth of your smalls. While that thin barrier dampens some of his contact, it also adds a light tingling sensation to everything he does. 

Were his fingers not moving so deftly, you would fear he was falling asleep there and then when his eyes close momentarily. Lahabrea changes his tactics, though, slowing down again but applying more pressure. Fingers tease at the edges of your smalls here and there, stroking at your folds, then back to your protected center. Experimenting with varied sensations, textures, techniques is one of his favorite ways to please you. The satisfaction that sings through you then steals your ability to observe him, your head too heavy to hold up anymore. You shift your hips, alternately seeking a stronger touch and pulling away to prolong the pleasure, both out of your control. There’s a mild pinch as the fabric is pulled taut, adding friction to his every movement, blessedly just shy of pain. 

When you feel you can take no more of the torment he denied inflicting upon you, Lahabrea’s fingers slip under the tangled mess of your underthings and delve into you. You gasp from the sudden fullness, that needed connection, though he keeps his movements small, exploratory. There is a rustling of fabric, then a tickling at your neck of his golden strands falling over you. He withdraws his fingers, leaving your whimpering for only a moment - then the trap is sprung. 

All at once, his lips are on your neck, teeth grazing tender flesh. His free hand grips your thigh, and he adds another digit before diving back into you with the other. You can barely hold yourself up under his delicious onslaught, fingers plunging into you over and over, taut fabric channeling his movements between your folds and over your throbbing bud. 

The sweet tension singing through you begins to focus down to a finer point, low in your belly, and your hands clench at the desk, screaming for something to hold onto. You propel yourself forward and grip the front of Lahabrea’s robes with one hand as a commanding wave of pleasure tears through you. All you can do is cling to him as you fight to catch your breath, thankful he’s paused his ministrations to let you rest. After a moment, you feel his arms around you as he helps you to sit up again. 

Finally, you force your heavy eyelids to open. Lahabrea grins back at you from behind a tangle of blond hair, his brow dotted with sweat, yet more lovely in his disarray. Your eyes drift down to his chest, where you spy an inky handprint smeared over the front of his robes. 

Lahabrea looks at you in utter puzzlement, brow furrowing. To be fair, wild laughter was probably not what he expected from you at that particular moment. He follows your gaze to the stain and his eyes widen in horror. “Oh, no no no!” After quickly ensuring you won’t topple over without his assistance, he bolts around behind you. “Ah,” he says with a sigh of relief. “Nothing ruined. Though you may want to conjure new robes for yourself as well.” 

You hop off the desk and tug on your garments until you spy a large black blotch amidst the dark grey fabric. With a laugh, you gather it up and pull it over your head. “A problem for tomorrow then.” 

“Yes, I should clean this up…”

“ _ Tomorrow, _ ” you hiss, punctuating your statement by throwing your robes at him. 

In his defense, he swiftly changes course, either from your tone or upon realizing your state of undress. “Right. As you say.” The brush of his fingers along your cheek leaves a cool, damp sensation in its wake. You just catch his grin before he gathers you up in his embrace, the brief thoughts of vengeance that came to mind now thoroughly quashed as you lose yourself in his kiss. Your every sense belongs to him. Soft robes against your skin and the heat of his body pulsing through the last veil between you. Acrid tea rendered into ambrosia upon his tongue. The metallic and earthen odor of the ink he prefers undercut with the spicy, smokey perfume that is uniquely him. 

You’ve only a breath to whimper when he breaks the kiss and spins you around to face the desk. He holds you with one unyielding arm just under your breasts, holding you tight to his chest. A shiver runs through you when the fingers of his free hand trace your collarbone, your throat. His voice comes low and wanton, your jaw quivering as his breath caresses your neck. “What was it that you said earlier tonight?” 

Words fail you as he nibbles at the tender flesh below your ear, coming out in a garbled moan.

“Do you not remember your lessons in speechcraft?”

Only  _ he _ would be so terrible as to quiz you while making you as pliant as a Cubus in his grasp. “I don’t…,” you attempt until his touch leaves your neck and presses against your still-pulsing bud. 

As though you aren’t bucking in his arms like a wild creature, he continues. “Your voice must come from your diaphragm lest your words fail to reach your audience’s ears and hearts. Recall that your tone and delivery are as important as your words if you wish to convince me of your need.”

“But… Elidibus… the others…” 

Lahabrea clicks his tongue at your floundering. “You know my chambers are soundproof so that I might practice such in peace.” The last word is punctuated by the thrusting of two? Three? Digits into your sopping center, and you finally let out the moan you’ve been holding back. “Much better, my dear. Now,  _ convince me.” _

Point made, his fingers withdraw. You lean heavily against him, hanging in his grip, your body begging for more contact yet burning in befuddled agony. Your eyes alight on his desk, and a perpendicular swipe running through the rivulet of ink that had nearly made it to his papers - ah, that explains the smear on your cheek. Finally, your earlier taunt returns to your mind. “Lahabrea, aah…, your desk...”

“Come, now!” Your skin prickles at his dark laughter. “How am I meant to discern meaning from such scattered syllables? Though I often decry the use of pathos in a formal debate, I confess your passion may yet sway me, so long as your words find my ears. Will you beg or demand, hmm?” 

He snorts in amusement at your irritated growl. You jerk in his arms futilely before slumping in his grasp again. “Lahabrea, you devious, demanding fiend.” When he shakes with silent mirth, your bodies meet just so, and you can feel clear evidence that you’re not the only one suffering from unfulfilled desires. “Fiend though you are, I know you are not so cruel as to leave your beloved in such a state as this when only you, illustrious Speaker, can cure my affliction.” 

“And how is that?”

“By using that  _ quill _ you press against me to etch your name within my very being!” 

In a voice now ragged yet zealous, he delivers his grade. “A flattering and well-crafted metaphor, indeed. I am impressed. But you know what I want to hear from you.” 

You shift your feet, half tempted to try to stomp on one of his for his infuriating game, despite the ache in your cheeks from smiling overlong. “Lahabrea,  _ take me, curse you!” _

He’s already walking you the last step forward, guiding you to rest your arms on the cool wood surface there. “Well spoken. Sometimes simplicity is the….” His body tenses and shudders against you as he lets out a jaw-creaking yawn. “Ahem. Yes,” he mumbles beneath the sound of him stripping off his robe and letting it drop to the floor. 

Bouncing your toes against the stone floor, you wriggle your rear in a way you hope will overcome the fatigue that threatens to overtake him at the most inopportune moment possible. Now that he has you in position, all you can feel is the heat of your pulse focused down to a fine point - and the lack of him there. 

He doesn’t leave you waiting. 

Lahabrea settles in behind you and runs a hand down your back, taking his time to navigate the curve of your shoulder blades, tracing the ridge of your spine. This gesture, sensual and loving, guides you to open for him. Warmth washes over you at the press of his hips, anticipation thrilling through every inch of your body. He rumbles something unintelligible and, with a firm touch, positions you as he needs you. 

When at long last guides the searing tip of his cock to your waiting cleft, entering you in one adamant thrust, the heat that has been building within you ignites. Your cry echos through his cluttered study, sending some poor creation skittering away to quieter reaches. 

He sets a leisurely pace, his hands lingering on your hips, thumbs tracing idle circles. “Are you comfortable enough?” he asks. 

“Mmhmm.”

So assured, he snaps his hips forward, eliciting loud gasps from both of you. His quiet study is quickly filled with the wet, rhythmic cadence of your bodies meeting over and over. Lahabrea’s teasing had already left you on edge, so all too soon your pleasure reaches another peak. Your back arcs, giving him even more direct access to your depths as you tremble and moan beneath him. He slows but does not stop, even when your arms give out, and you rest your burning cheek against the cool wood beneath you. 

“Why, ah, have we never tried this before?” he muses between panting breaths. 

“Because there’s barely room for you here, much less for any,” you gasp as he finds the perfect angle, hitting a spot deep inside you that sends an insistent, throbbing wave of pleasure through you. “Any collaborative workings,” you finish in a rush of breath. You’re already close again, that insistent heat building in pressure within you with each thrust. Briefly, you regret challenging the artificial stamina that you knew would come with his exhaustion, unsure if you can keep up with him. But, the bliss of another orgasm seizes you, shaking that thought and any others from your mind. 

As he continues, you whimper out his name, each syllable chanted in time with his movements. He joins your song with a breathy moan, sparking your desires back to life once more. You lift your hips to meet his, squeezing your inner walls around his cock, so you can hear that decadent sound once more. Oh, and his reply is beautiful - Could the nations of the star hear the choir of devotion that spills from his lips, none would be spared from falling rapturously in love with him. He is overcome, bucking into you relentlessly until he spills his ardor within you as well. Falling over you softly, he peppers your back with feathery kisses and hums in contentment. Though the idea of him giving in to fatigue then and there was amusing, you gently nudge him. Slowly he stirs and helps you up in turn. You both look at each other and grin, sharing a quiet laugh. Somehow through your passions, you’ve both ended up with errant streaks and splotches of ink here and there.

You close your eyes and focus, tapping into your endless reserves of mana to summon up a soft cloth. Even after the events of the night, and many others before it, you’re sure that your face is as red as his as you carefully draw your creation over his skin to erase that evidence. Hidden in his robes as he usually is, it is easy to forget how captivating his body is - how he keeps so fit is beyond you. “You don’t… have to do that,” he mumbles. 

“Yes, I do. Remember, the point of this exercise was to ensure that you finally get some sleep.”

“The only reason?” 

The heat in your face grows to an inferno. None of this is helped by the fact that you’re now kneeling in front of him to blot the ink that managed to get down to his shin, and realized there were other parts of him that needed your careful touch as well. “Obviously not!”

Lahabrea chuckles and reaches down to help you up, pulling you into an embrace. “You’re going to get dirty again!” you grumble. 

“I’ll manage somehow.” 

And that’s when the night’s activities catch up with you - a fearsome yawn rips through you, and you cling to him hard enough to make him creak.

When you release him, he takes your hand and walks you over to the section of his study you’d claimed for yours. You rarely slept in here intentionally, at least not for the full night, but the very thought of getting dressed and walking anywhere was exhausting. Once you are settled, thoroughly kissed, and wished a good night, he pads away and you give in to the embrace of sleep. 

As you melt into your nest of cushions, the world growing quiet and soft around you, a familiar sound reaches your ears. It is a well-beloved thing you’ve fallen asleep to on more than one occasion - the scritch, scritch, scritch of a quill on parchment…

_ Bastard. _


End file.
